


Self Inflicted

by Sokerchick



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-25 17:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12536744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokerchick/pseuds/Sokerchick
Summary: House decides to test Wilson's comment about his need to be miserable with disastrous effect.  Spoilers for Need to Know and Distractions





	1. Chapter 1

He sat on a park bench watching the people pass him by. Gazing at the world as it drifted slowly on its axis. A couple of young blonde college kids jogged past. A biker in a helmet and the gaudiest colored spandex he had ever seen. A mother with a dual stroller and two young toddlers throwing animal crackers at each other. 

He had started coming here after Stacy had left him the second time. After Wilson had screamed at him on the roof. That had been months ago. It was warm and sunny out now but the words still echoed around his head

"You have no idea why you sent her off"  
"Don't do this"  
"This is no great sacrifice. You sent her away because you've got to be miserable."

He'd drunk himself into a stupor that night. And the next. And for another week after that. He had lashed out at everything and everyone around him. But mostly he had lashed out at himself. 

He remembered the first time he had come to this bench. In a fit of rage he had decided to test Wilson's theory and at 2am on a Thursday night he had walked here. A mile from the hospital and nearly seven from home. The walk which may have once taken him an hour to jog had seemed to go on forever. Seven miles. It had been snowing.

After a mile the pain in his leg had felt good. Something, anything to make the dead feeling that had settled itself in his chest disappear. After three miles he had popped three extra Vicodin into his mouth. By the time he reached this bench in the park he could hardly stand. In fact, he had fallen quite a number of times. His leg wasn't used to the kind of abuse he was throwing at it and in his drunken state he was being none to careful. The snow and cold had numbed his pain and he had made it. It was 7 in the morning but he had gotten there. And then he had sat on the bench and laughed until he cried. 

He hadn't walked so much as a mile in five years and now he had gone seven. An impossible feat but the booze and rage had spurred him on.

Then he had reached into his pocket and called James.

"Jimmy?"

"House? It's seven in the morning. It's your day off what are you doing up?"

"Jimmy. You were right." He didn't know if it was the Vicodin or the booze or the pain so sharp that he was now curled up on his side on the bench. He cleared his throat. "Look you were right. Please come pick me up." He just wanted to be warm again. All this had only proven that Wilson was right. That he did things to make himself miserable. Knowing that didn't change anything though. He was still alone and there was still an ache in his chest where Stacy used to be.

"Right about what House? Where are you?"

"I'm in the park by the hospital" And snapped the phone shut. The cold may have temporarily numbed his leg but now the muscle froze up and the same cold that he had welcomed only an hour before had locked his joints. He would be paying for this dearly.

Fifteen minutes later James Wilson found his best friend asleep on a park bench. It was almost freezing outside but he knelt cautiously in the snow in front of the seat. "House."  
He reached out and lightly touched his friend's shoulder.

Glossy blue eyes opened up slowly and drifted before they seemed to find his face. "Jimmy?"

It was a question and that worried the young doctor. "House." He called. "House," this time with a little more force and a nudge to the shoulder. "Come on get up. We need to get you home. Where's your car?"

Again the blue eyes blinked slowly in and out of view. "At home. I walked here."

"Shit" Wilson cursed and sucked in a deep breath. "House how long have you been outside?"

"Dunno. What time is it."

Wilson glanced down at his watch. It was nearly seven thirty in the morning and he said so. 

"Hmm. I guess about five hours then."

"House. It's too damn cold to be out here that long. Come on. Get up." He stood up swiftly as if to show his friend how it was done.

"I don't think I can."

That worried Wilson more than the booze on his breath. House rarely ever showed others that he was in pain. He faked it all to often as a means to an end, but when it truly hurt he clammed up and pushed every one away. 

"Come on I'll help." He reached down and slid his hands through his friend's armpits and realized to his dismay that his friend wasn't shivering. "House did you fall down?"

"hmm."

Wilson stopped his attempts to lift his friend and thought about it. Greg wasn't exactly dressed for hours out in the cold. Sure he had a thick coat on but the jeans he was wearing couldn't be offering much protection. Now that he looked he could see that they were soaked through. That plus the lack of shivering and the alcohol. The whole combination spelled hypothermia. 

"Shit House what have you done to yourself? I'm going to take you to the hospital its closer than your place or mine. I think you have hypothermia."

"NO!" The still figure started struggling to get up and cried out halfway curling his body around his leg. Despite the obvious pain House's muffled voice made his desires clear. "I don't want to go to the fucking hospital take me home or leave me here. I shouldn't have called."

"You're not up to arguing buddy." A sharp pain in his bicep though proved him wrong. House's cane had whipped around lightening fast and struck him in the arm. 

"Then leave me the fuck here. It'll be fun. I can be miserable and you can watch."

Wilson thought about the best way to the handle the situation and finally just reached down and grabbed House under the armpits and pulled up.

House screamed.

It had been five years since Wilson had heard House scream like that and he had hoped never to hear it again. Re-firming his grip he started to drag house to the car. Eventually House helped by hopping along on his left leg with Wilson under his right arm grabbing the wrist and Wilson's left wrapped around his torso.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson got House into the car. They were only a mile from the hospital. He flipped open his cell phone and hit speed dial number four. Three rings later a familiar voice answered on the other end of the line.

"Hello"

"Cuddy, you’ve got to get an ER room ready."

"What happened?"

"Later just get it ready. I'm bringing House in with severe hypothermia. Get some heated saline and warm blankets. We're only a half a mile from the hospital." 

And just as abruptly as the phone had rung Lisa Cuddy was left with a dial tone. Taking a deep breath she leapt into action and was waiting with a gurney at the ER entrance bay three minutes later when Wilson's familiar silver Volvo pulled in.

Wilson jumped out and ran around to the passenger side of the car. He yelled at Cuddy and the nurse as he did. "He's unconscious. He stopped shivering and has been outside for almost five hours. He showed slight confusion and didn't immediately recognize me. I'm guessing his BAC is pretty high. I haven't checked resps or heart rate but his breathing is pretty slow."

He opened the door and caught his unconscious friend as he started to tumble toward the ground. Between Wilson and the nurse with Cuddy steadying the gurney they got House loaded onto the bed and pushed inside.

In the ER they were assaulted by a doctor and another nurse. Wilson went into the room while Cuddy remained outside staring on as an IV was attached with warm saline and his wet jeans and were cut away.

A heating blanket was quickly thrown over his lower body as the nurse wielding the heavy duty scissors moved up to his shirt. House was going to be pissed when he realized that his Rolling Stones tee shirt was a casualty. 

A pulse ox and heart rate monitor were attached as his shirt was removed and Cuddy gasped at the information displayed in bright block letters on the monitor. She heard Wilson swear.

His core temperature was just shy of 84 degrees and while 14 degrees lower than the average body temperature didn't seem like much it was enough to be fatal if he wasn't re-warmed correctly. 

The key with hypothermia victims was to get them back up to a normal body temperature as fast as possible without shocking the system. The team had to move fast enough so that House's blood didn't have time to turn to sludge and stop moving like a fluid but slow enough that he wouldn't code from the shock to his system. With his core temperature at 84 degrees the heart arrhythmias caused by metabolic acidosis were a real possibility.

His temperature ticked up a degree and then another. And then his heart faltered. Beating out an irregular pattern. The nurse slipped a mask with special heated air over House's mouth and a reassuring fog appeared on the plastic in rhythm with his slow shallow respirations. His heart began to beat regularly again. 

Three more degrees and the heart monitor let out a wail. The arrhythmia that had righted itself had come back with a vengeance. He was now in full blown tachycardia. House's heart was beating at an amazing 108 beats a minute. Then, suddenly, as if to make up for the extra beats the heart monitor screeched out the sound every doctor dreads, asystole. House had flatlined.

The team sprung into motion and Cuddy couldn't see as they worked around his chest but she saw the results. House's feet jerked as the doctors pushed electrical energy through his chest in an effort to reawaken his heart. After the second shock the doctors sighed and took a half-step back. Then resumed the task of warming their patient.

\--

Cuddy wasn't sure how long she had been standing there when House's temperature finally reached 90 degrees but she let out a sigh. While he was still considered hypothermic he should be out of the woods. 

It seemed that Wilson came to a similar conclusion as he came out of the emergency room. He drew his hands up to his face and leaned against the wall looking for all the world as if his universe had just collapsed. Then with a great heave of air he righted himself and faced Cuddy. 

"It looks like he's going to be out of the woods. He's going to be sore. God I can't believe his heart stopped."

Cuddy looked on with sympathy. She had been in the same place almost five years previously. House had died on the table as they tried to remove the dead muscle from his leg. "I was hoping I would never have to see that again."

Wilson nodded and then his face darkened. "He walked."

His boss looked at him questioningly.

"He walked from his apartment to the park. Seven fucking miles. He was drunk off his ass." The series of statements served to help Wilson wrap his head around the situation. "He hasn't taken so much as a stroll in almost five years and he walked seven miles just to prove a damn point."

Cuddy wasn't about to interrupt the tirade and let Wilson continue.

"This is my fault you know. I told him" Wilson swallowed, "I told him that he had to be miserable. That he drove Stacy away because he wanted to be miserable. So he got drunk and tried to prove his point and now he's in a damn hospital bed only proving that I need to keep my damn mouth shut."

Cuddy didn't know what to do. Wilson may have spurred this particular action but House would have found a way to self-destruct on his own. She wanted to say as much but couldn't think of the right way to say it. She settled for wrapping her arms around Wilson's shoulders.

Half a minute later when a harsh sob erupted from the back of his throat he pulled away and tried to turn away as he wiped his face. Cuddy had the presence of mind to ignore the gesture.

"He could have died." The statement was made to the floor but Cuddy knew that Wilson was still speaking to her. " He could have died all because of his damn self destructive streak. I'm going to have to talk to him about this."

Cuddy could only nod her agreement.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson knew that House was awake the minute he got the page 'Nurse Mutiny Rm 301'. He had gone back to the couch in his office to see if he could get some sleep but his restlessness about what had happened kept him pacing. Then around 1130 he had gotten the page. He glanced around his office trying to center himself for the fight to come. 

Greg House's displeasure could be heard as soon as Wilson exited the stairwell. Four doors down a nurse practically ran from the room and made a beeline for the safety of the nurse's station. 

Having caused the nurses to flee House was shakily trying to remove his IV when Wilson appeared in the door way. "Fat chance House. Your staying."

"Who's going to stop me? I told you not to bring me here."

"I'm surprised you remember that at all. Your temperature was 84 degrees when they brought you in and your blood alcohol level was .23 you moron. You could have killed yourself."

House chose to ignore that particular statement and focus on his escape. His actions were thwarted, however, when Wilson came over and clamped his hand around the IV port that House was futilely trying to remove. "What the hell is your problem House? I get it. You're upset that Stacy is gone but you did that and you don't have anyone to blame but yourself."

"Yes. I did that. I did that because I need to be miserable. I get what you think about it. But did you even once stop to consider the fact that if she leaves now then she won't leave later. I'd rather rip the band-aid off now and get it over with."

Silence descended on the room.

The quiet only lasted a few seconds. It was broken by a gasp from the man lying in bed. Wilson stepped back and released House's arm as the long fingers moved to wrap around the missing thigh muscle. 

"Son of a bitch" the soft words escaped House's lips as he slowly started to massage around his right knee. 

Wilson started to move forward to take over the massage but "don't touch me" ground out between tight lips stopped him in his tracks. Blue met brown and the anger radiating from House's eyes almost caused Wilson to back up half a step. 

Five minutes later House was still rubbing at the tight thigh. "Do you need a heating pad?"

The urge to refuse was strong but the massage wasn't getting him anywhere so the stubborn doctor finally nodded. A few minutes later Wilson returned with the aforementioned item and plugged it in beside the bed. As the heating pad slowly warmed up House took it and wrapped it around his thigh.

Leaning back against the semi-upright bed House absentmindedly rubbed his chest with his left hand. Catching the motion Wilson piped in. 

"You flat-lined. They had to shock you."

House's eyes snapped up to Wilson's in an effort to validate the statement. Seeing nothing that indicated a lie House sighed. "Shit."

In the face of nonchalance Wilson exploded. "Jesus Christ House. What the hell brought this about. I get it. You were trying to prove your point but all you did was prove mine. Your damn self destructive streak is going to get you killed one of these days. What if I hadn't answered the phone. What if I had been in the shower and hadn't heard it ring. What if I had forgotten it today? You would have died on that bench just to prove a point. And not even the one you set out to prove."

"Are you done lecturing?" House continued to meet Wilson's gaze and rub his sore chest at the same time.

"Fuck you." Turning on heel Wilson stormed out of the room leaving House to his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

He was brooding. There were no two ways about it. Wilson had once again stormed in and screamed in that self-righteous Jewish mother hen voice of his trying to make his point and save the world in one fell swoop. Well, he'd never heard a Jewish mother use language like that before and wasn't sure that mamma Wilson would approve of the words coming out of Saint Jimmy's mouth.

That being said Wilson may have had a point about some of the things he said. Not all. mind you, but maybe some of them. Not that that thought would be admissible in a court of law or that Wilson would ever find out that he'd had it.

He rubbed his hand over his chest again. It hurt like almighty hell. This was the first time he'd actually felt the affects of the defibrillator. The last time he had been drugged to the gills and mostly unconscious following his untimely death and resurrection. 

However, not all of the ache could be explained off by over two-hundred joules of electricity that had passed through his chest that morning. Some could be explained by the hitch caused when he had unceremoniously shoved Stacy out the door. House still couldn't believe that he told Wilson that she was like a band-aid. Hell, he hadn't even realized that was how he felt until the words had been out of his mouth. 

Now, though, given time to think about it, the analogy was fairly accurate. The first time Stacy left was worse. Six months of driving him to rehab and stony silence was all she could take. He had tried not to blame her but even now, nearly six years later he still did. When she had left he had done the same thing he was doing now. A self destructive streak a mile wide was not something one could afford when one tended to push the love of your life away not once, but twice.

His mulling over Stacy was interrupted when Cuddy burst through the door her voice hitting a pitch that was certain to shatter glass. "What the hell were you thinking?! Are you a moron?!"

"Are you a parrot? I've had this conversation once today already."

"You could have killed yourself. What if Wilson hadn't picked up the phone??"

"Polly want a cracker?"

Her face started to darken. "Wilson is fuming and you're making jokes!?"

"That seems to be the case."

"I get the whole 'I'm pining for Stacy' attitude that you're giving off but that doesn't give you the right to kill yourself or drag Wilson down with you." Silence. "You realize he thinks that this is his fault. That you did this out of some ill conceived need to prove a point."

"He may have mentioned something to that affect"

"Yes, well you need to pull your head out of your own ass and realize what this is doing to him. He's just as torn up about this as you are and having to drag your frozen butt off of a park bench at seven o'clock in the morning isn't helping."

"Right I can see how this is so painful for him." Scorn had replaced sarcasm. "Because the woman who crippled him just walked out on him again." House took a deep breath. The tension coursing through his body had to stop. The twinge in his thigh would escalate into a full blown spasm if he didn't relax. 

"Leave, Cuddy. I don't need your help and I don't need his. Don't come back unless you have an AMA form. I'm leaving."

"You're such an ass."

His hand wrapped around the heating pad and his thigh trying to stall the impending pain until she had left the room. Thankfully, apparently fed up with his attitude Cuddy turned on heel and strode out of the room.

Alone at last House let a small sigh that turned into a cry escape his lips as the heating pad was dropped to the floor in favor of a massage. The muscles started to spasm and he rode it out clutching the offending appendage and hoping that it would stop soon. 

There was little chance of that, however. His laugh turned into a tight sob. Seven miles. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking. His leg would be reminding him of this for days to come. 

Ten minutes later the muscles finally gave up their grip. House leaned over to retrieve the heating pad wrapping it gently around his thigh. Thinking of his cane which he hadn't seen since this morning and the extra tenderness caused by the long walk he hit the nurse call button. 

The nurse cheerfully entered the room a minute later. "How can I help you? Is everything alright?"

"Fine. I need a pair of crutches and an AMA form."

"Sir. Doctor Cuddy said that…"

"I don't care what she said just get me the damn crutches and the form. I'm leaving one way or another and since it's your job to make sure I don't kill myself doing it then you better get me the form and the crutches."

She turned quickly and left House wondering if either item would be forthcoming. Apparently, though she was smarter than she looked because five minutes later a set of crutches leaned against the head of his bed, scrubs were folded neatly at the foot and he was signing the bottom of the AMA form.

She expertly removed the IV and detached him from the rest of the monitoring devices. Made a quick note in his chart and left again. 

Twenty painful minutes later House was dressed and carefully balanced between the two long crutches. It had been a while since he had done this but the ease of using them came back in a few steps. Propping the pads under his armpits he located his personal items on the table next to him in a bag and flipped open his cell phone. The cab would be there in ten minutes and he would need that whole time to get downstairs. Hopefully, no one would be looking for him. He hobbled towards his door and thought of a long hot bath and some New York Yankee Workshop he had recorded the other day with a satisfied sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

The door opened and he couldn't tell if it was the hinges making the groaning noise or his own poor abused body. Even the effort of simply sitting up for the ten minute ride home in the cab seemed to have drained what was left of his energy. House doubted he would have made it up the three stairs in front of his apartment building if it wasn't for the strong desire not to be found flat on his ass for a second time that day. And he'd be risking hypothermia again in what he was wearing because while his coat had been located in a bag of personal belongings under the hospital bed it had remained damp. The rest of his clothing had been a causality of overeager ER nurses and the scrubs he'd needed to resort to were too short on his long legs. He thought despairingly of his Rolling Stones tee.

Goosebumps rose on his skin as he balanced carefully on one crutch prying the damp cloth of the coat from his body. The dark leather sofa called invitingly from across the room but he knew if he sat there he wasn't going to get up again. 

Finally freeing himself from the clutches of the sodden material House let it drop to the ground. Slowly he crutched his way to the bathroom. Balancing on the edge of the clawed tub he turned the water to the perfect temperature and put the plug in place. He didn't use it often, the shower with it's tiny ledge was easier to get in and out of, but the deep water would hopefully soothe his revolting thigh muscles. 

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror he watched his reflection. Balancing once again on his left leg he leaned the crutches within reach and pulled the thin green scrub shirt over his head. His chest was dotted with a fine smattering of brown and grey hair. House slowly ran his hands over the matching red marks on his chest. Ugh. He knew what 300 joules of electricity could do to the human body. The thought alone made him tired. 

Leaning on the wall he made it to the edge of the tub and slipped off the rest of his clothes and sighed as the warm water stopped just below his chest. Tilting his head back he stretched out the sore muscles of his legs and let out a deep breath.

\--

"HOUSE, HOUSE"

Pounding.

"HOUSE I’M COMING IN THERE."

A click. He shivered. 

Disoriented he looked down and found his body covered in goose bumps. Asleep? He must have fallen asleep in the bathtub. Groaning he grabbed the edges of the porcelain as Wilson came bursting in the open door of the bathroom.

"JESUS CHRIST HOUSE! You can't just disappear like that! What the hell were you thinking?!" 

Sinking back against the cool surface of the tub and unashamed House responded in turn. "I thought we had this conversation today."

"You can't check out AMA and not answer your phone."

"I told you I didn't want to be there. If you want to be a mother hen throw the bathmat down over here so I don't fall on my ass when I get out."

Wilson threw up his hands in exasperation and turned on heel storming out of the room slamming the door shut. House watched the door as it slammed back open abusing the little rubber stopper behind the door. Wilson tossed a bath mat down with a rubber no-slip bottom. House grinned a little. 

"You know you shouldn't slam doors," the grin grew as Wilson made a sound somewhere between a child being strangled and a cat in heat. Not able to miss that opportunity House made a remark to that affect. The door slammed again.

Good. Privacy for what was sure to be a painful process. The cool water had stiffened his muscles. He drained most of it and turned the water to pure heat and waited as the porcelain behemoth refilled to his hips in water. Sighing House started by leaning forward pulling on the tight hamstring behind his leg until the combination of hot water and the stretch loosened it a little. Then on to the quad. Starting on his inner thigh were there was less damaged muscle he started the slow process of loosening the grip of the bands of muscle through a combination of massage and the hot water. Here, while the damage to the actual muscle was less the tight bands in his leg had compensated and built up over five years of work carrying twice as much weight as they were meant to. The cramps would be hellish if he didn't do this right.

Twenty minutes later his bare butt was perched on the edge of the tub and his leg was as calm as it was going to get. Levering up onto the crutches his left hand reached out to the towel rack and grabbed thin air. Damn.

"Wilson." 

"Yeah House." The other man's voice replied predictably from the kitchen where the warm smell of soup was bubbling forth. 

"Shut your eyes! I'm naked and I don't want you taking advantage of my body."

"Why don't you have a towel or clothing?" House imagined Jimmy's hands moving to plant on his hips in a suitably exasperated manner.

"Because you didn't lay them out like a good mother hen would have."

Wilson sighed. Everything with House was a fight. He couldn’t have just asked for a towel, no, it was a production every time. However, the younger man's anger was still tempered by the image of his friends body convulsing as electricity was pushed through layers of skin and tissue in an effort to get the underlying heart muscle beating normally again. 

A minute after the towel was passed through the door House emerged his hair sticking up at all angles from being dried with the fluffy fabric. The towel that Wilson was certain was white at some point was now more of an off white with explosions of color. A testament to House's inability to separate his laundry, or do laundry very often for that matter.

Wilson took a moment to examine his friend. His tall frame had lost weight that, until now his clothing was hiding. House looked about 145 on a frame that should have at least carried 160 pounds. He sighed loudly. 

"Put some clothes on."

"I don't know, I think this look gives a certain amount of freedom of movement. Do you think Cuddy would sexually harass me in this?"

"I think Cuddy would just as soon harass a scarecrow."

"Fine. I'm taking my sexy bod in the other room then," and hobbled off toward the bedroom mock slamming it.

Wilson smiled and turned to pour the soup into two bowls.


	6. Chapter 6

Wilson knocked on the door to House's bedroom ten minutes later using one immaculate French leather enclosed toe.

"It's open."

"My hands are full."

A grumble came from the other side of the door followed by the squeak of crutches. The bedroom door swung wide leaving Wilson a view of the chaos. He said nothing as he moved past House to place the bowls of soup on the nightstand by the bed. Using the bowl in his left hand he swept the mess off the top of the offending piece of furniture and placed the bowls down.

"Hey," Wilson turned to face his protesting friend. Apparently ten minutes had only been long enough for him to pull on a pair of worn flannel pants. House stood before Wilson with his brows furrowed. Shirtless and propped between crutches with a set of red burn marks from the defibrillator combined to make him a less than imposing figure.

"Well maybe if you had a clear flat surface in your room. It's not like you can even tell. It just adds to the piles of crap you have in here."

House opened his mouth to protest but a wave of fatigue passed over him. Instead he used his right crutch to flip a shirt up from the pile closest to him. Shoving the crutches into Wilson's chest he balanced on his left foot and pulled the shirt over his head. Sitting on the edge of the bed House swung his left leg up on the bed and sucked in a breath as he painfully lifted his sore right leg up into the bed. Tossing the disarrayed comforter over his legs he turned expectantly to Wilson.

"Gonna tuck me in?" Wilson sighed and looked around the room. Apparently picking up that Wilson was looking for something to sit on House pointed to a huge pile of what seemed to be dirty clothes. However, upon clearing the top layer of debris he located a straight backed chair. Pulling it over toward the bed Wilson first handed House a bowl then unceremoniously plopped down in the chair. Kicking his legs up onto the edge of the bed but wary of his friends leg he leaned the chair back on two legs and began to eat.

Wilson was about to comment on the uncharacteristic silence coming from the occupant of the bed but when he looked up it was just in time for his left hand to drop his own spoon and grab at the bowl in House's lap. The contents had been on the verge of spilling onto its unknowing owner's lap. House's head had dipped forward and his eyes were sliding shut of their own accord.

Carefully placing to two bowls back on the night stand and retrieving the spoon from where it landed on his lap Wilson stood and nudged House. 

"Go to sleep."

"I was."

"I mean lay down. Your neck will be killing you if you try and fall asleep in that position." The only response was a grunt. Then slowly House slid down rotating over onto his left side. Grabbing one of the extra pillows laying on the bed he shoved it between his legs supporting the right one on top of the left.

Wilson clicked out the lights and shut the door behind himself.

\-----------------

He woke with a start his arm and neck stuck to the leather of the couch. Blinking he glanced around the room. House's couch, House's book shelves, House's television playing House's Tivo, House's apartment. Wilson sleepily identified his surroundings. Then the muffled sound came again, the one that had pulled him from his slumber.

Heavy breathing from the other room then a groan or a muffled cry. From House's room. House had been sick the events of the past day came crashing back with alarming clarity. Shit.

Wilson got up from the sofa leaving a layer of skin behind adhered to the leather. Pushing the door to the bedroom open he saw immediately that something was wrong. House was on his back with the covers thrown away from his body. His right leg was canted at an angle while the left was stretched as far as it would go. As he got closer a thin sheen of sweat was visible on his friend's forehead as well as dark stains on the chest and in the armpits of the grey tee shirt.

Turning on heel Wilson grabbed an ancient mercury thermometer from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom as well as a dishrag from the kitchen. Dousing the rag with cool water he returned to House's room and tried to rouse him. However, glossy, unfocused eyes were the only response. Sticking the thermometer in his mouth and placing the cloth on his forehead Wilson waited for the thermometer to diagnose what his eyes had already told him. Fever. 102.3.

Scanning the room Wilson looked for the stethoscope that was usually floating around the apartment. Not seeing his quarry he turned and moved out into the other room searching the bookshelves. Spying the offending object on the middle shelf leaned against volumes of Chaucer, ancient Greek philosophy and laying on top of the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated he grabbed the stethoscope and returned to the bedroom. Fervently pressing it to Houses chest he heard the sound he expected and dreaded at the same time.

Crackle.

Pneumonia. He'd get a culture in the morning to see which bug House had picked up. Double shit. Only House could manage to be in the Hospital for less than a full day and pick up hospital acquired pneumonia. Probably a nasty strain of the stuff if the time frame and the crackle were anything to go by.

He pondered calling the hospital and bringing House in now for some serious antibiotics but there would definitely be objections from the man laying on the bed. If the fever went any higher it wouldn't be up to him anyway he'd be forced to call the ambulance before Houses brain got cooked by his own body.

From his sleep a deep resounding cough wracked House's lungs. Unconsciously the sweating man curled up on his side as the sound of mucous rattling around his lungs became louder and louder. The wheezing breaths in between coughing fits made up Wilson's mind for him. There was no way that they could wait until morning to treat what was apparently a virulent strain of pneumonia. 

Glassy eyes turned toward Wilson as the exhausted doctor rolled over on his back. Apparently the coughing had done the hard part and roused House from his sleep. 

"Chest hurts." He wheezed dropping his left hand onto his breastbone as if to reinforce the statement. 

"I know buddy. We're going to have to get you back to the hospital. You have pneumonia."

"You go. I'll stay here. I was already there once today."

Wilson shook his head. "Doesn't work like that. We need to figure out what strain you've got and get you on antibiotics." In protest House heaved himself back over onto his left side.

Wilson got up and moved back into the other room. Pulling on the jeans that were sprawled on the floor he returned to House's room and dug around until he found himself a sweatshirt that didn't smell too dirty. A sweatshirt for House and the crutches were the last thing he grabbed before tapping House on the shoulder with one finger.

House responded with a finger of his own.

Despite himself a smile spread across Wilson's lips. "House either you let me help you get to the hospital or I call an ambulance and they do it for me. Your choice."

Considering his options the ill man rolled onto his back and extended a hand. Wilson heaved him into a sitting position and helped him lean against the headboard of his bed. Ten minutes later House was dressed with his feet hanging over the edge of the bed and the crutches in either hand. With Wilson's help he rose onto his left foot leaving the right to hover above the ground. 

The entire time as he helped House to the car Wilson could feel the heat radiating off of his friend's body. Luckily House made it into the passenger seat before another coughing fit hit. Wilson winced. Judging by the sound of the cough it would be a rough few days ahead.


	7. Chapter 7

It was Monday morning and Chase was sitting at the conference room table of the diagnostics department. His left hand held an egg bagel with enough cream cheese to choke a horse. His right hand held a pencil tapping out a discordant rhythm as he contemplated a five letter word for 'condos, e.g.' that started with the letter 'u'.

A shadow fell across the puzzle and a feminine voice spoke directly next to his ear, "units."

He jumped and turned to see Cameron with her coat still on and her purse slung over a shoulder stomping snow from her feet. "Huh?"

She smiled at the confused intensivist. "A five letter word for condos."

"Hm. Oh. Right." He turned back to the crossword just in time to see a glob of cream cheese land right on 15 across. Deciding it wasn't meant to be Chase shoved the last bit of bagel into his mouth and turned to his co-worker. "How was your weekend?"

"Fine. Have you seen Foreman or House yet this morning."

Chase scoffed at the idea that House would be in at 8am. "Foreman is up in neurology. There was a big conference in New York over the weekend and they're still a little short handed."

Cameron nodded and walked over to the small desk and slung her coat over the back of it and pushed her purse under the desk after removing a pair of shoes. Chase glanced, confused, as she pulled off her boots and replaced the snow covered footwear with a pair of stylish low heels.

"What?!" 

"Nothing." He had learned early not to comment on women's shoes unless he was complimenting them. Women could be so defensive about them.

"It's snowy outside. If I wear these then my feet will get wet before I even get to work."

He threw up his hands in defense. "I didn't say anything. Very practical." Silently he was adding another item on the list of things that made women insane. 

She glared at him just to make sure he wasn't patronizing her. Chase's poker face had been perfected by years of dating women and he made sure to keep the right amount of apology, in case he had done something wrong, and cluelessness, in case she thought he had done something wrong but wasn't sure, on his face.

He stood and turned toward the door looking for an escape route. "Page me when House comes in. I'll be down in the NICU." Even working was better than the defensive shoe glare. 

\------------------------------------

Two hours later Cameron was still alone in the diagnostics lounge going through a backlog of mail and referrals when a haggard looking Cuddy came through the door. 

Normally the woman was so well put together that Cameron did a double-take when she saw the dean of medicine. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and only the barest of makeup was applied. Loose black slacks paired with a simple collard shirt and flats completed the outfit. The minimum amount of cover-up couldn't hide the bags under her eyes. Something was wrong.

Cuddy held up a hand to forestall the explosive questions she could see trying to escape Cameron's lips. Taking a deep breath she calmed herself before delivering the information she had come here to impart.

"Dr. House came in last night with a very severe case of pneumonia. He won't be in the office today."

"Is he okay?"

"The pneumonia is pretty bad but Dr. Wilson got him in here fast and the antibiotics should clear it up fairly quickly. He's on the third floor in a private room. However, I will warn you that he is not in the mood for visitors. So I would suggest that you continue with any work that needs to be done here." With that she turned and left a stunned Cameron staring at the closing glass door. Shaking herself out of her shock the brunette doctor reached for the phone and paged Foreman and Chase to the diagnostics lounge. 

Five minutes later Chase was seated in a chair and Foreman was leaned against the wall behind him. Both were arguing with Cameron.

"You pulled me out of an MRI for this? House is sick. Fine. E-mail Cuddy and have her notify us when he's back at work until then I'll be in neurology." 

"Wait! You don't want to visit him and see if he's okay."

"Sorry Cameron," Chase intoned from where he was seated, "House is a grouch normally. I don't think that being sick is something that will improve his disposition any. Plus, if it were me I'd rather not have my co-workers staring at me while I hacked up a lung."

"But he's sick. You don't think that it would be nice to check in on him and make sure he's doing okay?"

"No." Forman turned and left.

Chase shook his head. "Page me if he gets worse or shows up for work. Until then I'll be helping out downstairs." The Australian left for the NICU.

Cameron was left alone once again to contemplate what to do. Part of her desperately wanted to make sure that her boss would be okay. Logic was on Chase and Foreman's side though. Pneumonia, while not fun to live through, was no longer a truly life threatening illness for a middle aged man. On top of the fact that Wilson was most assuredly monitoring the situation there really was no reason for Cameron to go visit her boss. She glanced down at the paperwork on the table in front of her. Maybe she'd finish up this stack of referrals and stop by to see if he needed anything. 

She knew he had some CDs and a portable CD player in his office as a backup for when his Ipod died. It was as good an excuse as any to stop by his room and see how he was doing. If he'd gotten sick over the weekend chances were he'd forgotten to bring anything to amuse himself with to the hospital. 

Decision made Cameron turned to her paperwork.


	8. Chapter 8

Cameron walked down the hall with House's CD player and a case of CDs clutched in her hand. As she approached the door to her bosses room she began to feel apprehensive. It was way more likely that House was going to mock her and assign more clinic hours for the gesture but she was nothing if not persistent. The blinds were drawn on the room but the sliding glass door was cracked open.

House was laying with most of his body flat. His torso was twisted at an awkward angle as he rested his weight on his left arm. The horrible deep coughing sounds confirmed even to the untrained ear that the man in bed was unhealthy. He was breathing shallowly but every few minutes he would take a deep breath causing another coughing fit. Every so often he would spit something discolored and slimy into the emesis basin clutched in his right hand.

Finally after ten minutes of watching Cameron saw him thrust the basin on the rolling bedside table and fall back onto the bed sweating and exhausted. Wilson appeared into view from a corner of the room. Holding a cup of what she was assuming was water out toward House.

The older man shook his head and pushed the cup away with one hand. Wilson tried again but then gave up leaving the full cup within reach next to the basin. He then pulled a chair up to the other side of the bed and turned on a TV which drowned out the wheezing breaths of his friend. Propping his feet up Wilson looked like he was ready for the long haul. 

"Go away." Cameron jumped thinking House was addressing her but quickly realized she was still safely unnoticed and he was talking to Wilson. 

"Riiight. I'll get right on that. You can get up and throw me out."

"I could still kick your ass with half my lungs drowning in mucus."

"Thanks for the visual but I highly doubt that."

"Want to bet? I'll bet you," but the rest of the sentence was drown out by another coughing fit. 

Unconsciously curling up on his left side House jerked to suddenly for his still sore leg and a wheezing gasp escaped between chest wracking coughs. 

"Shit. House you need to calm down." Wilson ran to the side of the bed where House was facing and laid a hand on the side of his head. 

Glossy unfocused eyes spoke of pain. One hand clutched his chest and the other was in a death grip on his leg. The coughing wouldn't let House get the full breath that he needed to help him focus and concentrate on willing the pain away. 

Cameron watched holding her breath as five then ten minutes passed. Slowly as Wilson's other hand drifted to rub House's heaving back his breathing started to calm. Coughs interspersed with calmer deeper breaths. Both of his hands went to his leg in an unconscious massage of the damaged muscle. Wilson removed his hands before House was really aware of his surroundings again. 

Cameron jumped. The administrative director of the hospital was suddenly in front of her glaring. Her hand was extended and she did not look happy. "Stop being a voyeur and respect his privacy. Leave."

Placing the items in her hand in to her boss's Cameron fled. Lisa Cuddy looked down at the CD case and player and sighed. Cameron meant well but neither House nor Wilson would appreciate it if they had found her standing outside the room looking in on them. Turning to the door she slid it open the click of her heels announcing her presence. 

Wilson looked up at the familiar sound while House continued to rub his leg and look miserable. Lisa made eye contact with her oncologist. "Why don't you see if you can find a heating pad." He nodded in return and left the room. 

"You've really done a number on yourself you know. We got the cultures back. You're going to be here for a couple more days while we run antibiotics. How you managed to pick up pneumonia so quickly is beyond me."

"Lucky." The word was wheezed out.

She sighed again deeply and pulled the chair around the bed so she could look him in the face. Seating herself she placed the music on the nightstand. "Cameron brought you some music from your office."

He opened one eye. "She's too involved for her own good."

"Surprise House someone cares what happens to you."

"That's stupid."

"No. You're being stupid. Stacy left but you killing yourself by trekking through the snow for God knows how long and getting pneumonia isn't going to help that."

"You don't think I KNOW that!?" But the angry words were too much for his chewed up lungs and he degenerated back into a coughing fit. 

Cuddy scanned the room and located the emesis basin and held it under his chin as he coughed globs of phlegm. Shaking her head she started to rub his arm. He tried to shrug her off but gave up when it became too much of an effort. 

Wilson returned at that moment with the heating pad. Taking in the situation at hand and the miserable sounding coughs he thought it best to just silently plug it in and wait for it to warm up. When it was finally warm the worst of the hacking had subsided and House finally noticed he was there.

His face still red from lack of oxygen he put a hand out for the heating pad then carefully wrapped it around his aching thigh. "Go away." Cuddy and Wilson made eye contact. She sighed and pushed the chair from the bed. Sometimes a tactical retreat was the best option. The two silently exited the room leaving House to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

Alone at last.  The hovering would be minimal for the next hour or so before guilt pulled Wilson back to his room.  Both hands clutched the warm pad to the tight thigh muscle hoping against hope that it would ease the horrible cramp in his leg.  Seemingly endless knots in the remaining muscle fought to cause the most agonizing pain he'd been in since the awful PT sessions right after the infarction.  It figured though, the muscles hadn't been worked this hard in a long time.

 

Seven miles.

 

He laughed.  A wheezing sound that almost triggered another coughing fit.  The scene was eerily reminiscent of just 24 hours earlier.  At least Wilson had left more quietly this time.  The urge to laugh was replaced by the urge to sob.  But even though he was alone and knew Wilson and Cuddy wouldn't be back for an hour and that the nurse wouldn't be back for at least two he couldn't release enough of his self control to allow more than an involuntary tightening of the throat.

 

Stacy.

  
Stupid bitch.  Why did she have to come back.  Why did she have to drag up everything and leave again.  Granted he had done most of the initial pushing to get her to leave but… Damn.  If he allowed himself to think back on the last ten years and compare the first half of the decade to the second half the differences were stark.

 

She had been there and while he would never classify himself as warm and fuzzy Wilson wasn't the only person he'd been friends with.  Smiles were something that could be produced multiple times a day rather than once a month.  Her legs, her wit, her tongue.  He missed it.  Missed all of it.

 

The most recent five years were marked with pain and almost everything he'd done since the infarction had been to save himself from it.  Push people away so they didn't see it.  Drown himself in Vicodin and Maker's Mark so he didn't feel it.  Hold in the cries so that Wilson and Cuddy couldn't hear it. 

 

He was sick of the pain, sick of the loneliness and sick of the anger that consumed him.  It wasn't right he shouldn't be this angry and self destructive all the time.  He knew that but there wasn't anything he could do to change it.  When he was a kid he would run for miles and the anger would get pounded into the pavement.  As he got older he would have one night stands with the girls from college and later with Stacy and pound out all the anger in the bedroom.  But the first was lost to him forever and the second was marred by pitying looks unless he paid the girl enough to ignore the scars.

 

He sighed, frustrated.  He needed a vent.  Something physical to take his mind off everything.  To wash out the protests of his mind and body and just let him be. 

 

He reached for the call button.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Wilson got the phone call from a nervous employee down in the physical therapy room an hour after he and Cuddy had decided to leave House in peace.  Hanging up the phone he turned and tried to walk calmly down the stairs to the first floor wing where the PT gym was housed.

 

A call, any call _about_ House set his teeth on edge.  It usually meant that his friend wasn't coherent enough to do the talking for himself.  However as he entered the PT gym quietly he saw two people in the room.  A wary orderly who had obviously been the one to place the call and House.  The wheelchair that he had acquired was rolled over to a corner of the expansive facility.  A speed bag had been lowered so that he could reach it from his seated position. 

 

From across the room Wilson could see the once pale green material was matted to House's body and dark stains had spread under his arms.  His normally unruly hair was plastered to his scalp.  Making eye contact with the orderly he gestured the young man out of the room.  The man looked only to happy to comply.

 

Wilson slowly made his way across the floor so as not to scare the intent man in the corner.  Finally he must have appeared in House's peripheral vision because bright blue orbs flicked in his direction then back to the bag.

 

House looked worn.  On the phone the orderly whispered as if afraid of House's wrath.  He said that the patient had been in the gym for more than 45 minutes but his calls to the older man had gone unanswered.  Then he had recognized House and made the call to Wilson. 

  
Sighing Wilson grabbed the speed bag mid swing.  In response House continued his repetitive motion and punched Wilson's knuckles.  Yelping Wilson pulled his hand away freeing the bag so the steady rhythm of the contact between fist and hand were all that was heard.

 

Grasping his sore hand he looked checking for bruises.  Instead he found blood.  Confused he searched for a cut to no avail. 

 

"House stop."  Still mesmerized by the sight of his friend's blood on his hand his voice came out quietly.  The pounding pattern continued.

 

"House STOP."  It was practically a yell.  The constant rhythm petered out as the bag came to a stop. 

 

"No gloves?  No tape?"

 

A shrug.

 

"Let me see."

 

Instinctively the older man pulled his hands in toward his stomach.  Unfortunately for him it only managed to smear more of the sticky red substance across the front of his shirt giving him away.

 

"Damn it.  Can't you find something _not_ destructive to do?"  Still no answer.

 

Moving around to the back of the wheelchair Wilson freed the brakes and pushed House over to the small first aid table located at the trainers station.  Scanning the materials there he pulled out some alcohol wipes, antibiotic cream and bandages and prepared to do another patch job.

 

"You know this seems to becoming a habit with you."  Nothing.  "Fine let’s get you cleaned up, down to the shower and then back up to your room."


	10. Chapter 10

"So he really didn't say _anything_?"

 

"Nope.  Silent.  He let me patch him up.  Then wheel him to the showers.  Hell he even let me help him in and out of the damn shower."

 

_"Nothing?"_

 

"Why is this such a foreign concept.  House was quiet.  I'm sure pneumonia plus a 45 minute workout really helped him catch his breath."

 

Cuddy sat and considered the possibility.  "How bad were his hands?"

 

"They'll be sore for a while.  They were pretty torn up.  He was punching that stupid bag for almost an _hour_."

 

Some days it sucked being an administrator.  "Go up and talk with him and find out anything else.  Meanwhile I'll let the nurses know to call one of us he leaves his room."

 

Wilson heaved himself up out of the chair still shaking his head.  "What was he thinking!?"

 

"I don't know but I want you to find out.  I need to know if he'll be fit to return to work when he's healthy."

  
"What do you mean when he's healthy?" Angry brown eyes snapped up.  "Once the pneumonia clears his system he'll be fine.  We'll keep him on the antibiotics for three or four more days and his chest will clear up and he can go home.  Give him Friday and the weekend off and he'll be back in a week or so."

 

"You can't possibly be blind to the self destructive behavior we've seen in the last few days.  He was drunk when he was first brought in after _walking_ from his apartment most of the way to the hospital.  He was severely hypothermic and his _heart stopped_.  He left the hospital AMA, developed pneumonia and then just spent an hour beating his hands bloody.  Does that sound like someone who should be treating patients to you?"

 

Fire raged behind Wilson's calm exterior.  Who was she to judge House?  What right did she have to question his abilities to treat patients? 

 

She continued sensibly, "At the very least I think he should speak to someone from the psych department about the possibilities of an anti-depressant.  He can't keep going on like this."

 

Wilson was about to come up with a witty retort when the image resurfaced of House's body arching off the gurney as hundreds of joules of electricity were pulsed through his body. 

 

"Yeah, maybe he should see someone."  The fire died down to smoldering embers.

 

_____________  


The appointment with the psychiatrist didn't go well.  He read the patient history and asked a few questions which got the same answer as everything else.  Unresponsiveness.

 

House ate the food put in front of him lest they try to switch him to IV nutrition or an N-G tube but it was the limit of his willingness to interact with the world.  He stared out the window and watched the individual snowflakes fall.

 

The day after the psychiatrist a new pill appeared in a little cup with what House immediately recognized as an anti-depressant.  He didn't need them.  He was fine.  There was no point taking them here.  He wasn't going to take them once he left and it took at least two or three weeks for them to start working.  And he wouldn't need to be in the hospital that long.  He could already feel his breathing easing and the crackle was dying down.

 

The day after that he was set to be released with strict instructions to stay in bed and finish the round of oral antibiotics.  It was Thursday.

 

Wilson had visited twice a day.  He just sat there at lunch and chatted or turned on whatever inane television program was on at the time.  In the evenings the cycle would repeat.  Today though Wilson showed up after all his work was done and tossed clean clothing on the end of the bed. 

 

House felt the pile land on his feet and looked up.  "Come on.  I'm taking you home."

 

Silently and slowly House got dressed.  Three days in bed had actually helped his leg.  The cramps and tension that would have followed him around for weeks after such a strain had finally eased on the second day. 

 

Tying the last shoelace in place a jacket and cane were thrust into his left and right hands respectively.  Wilson gave a nod to the on duty nurse at the desk as they passed.  The paperwork had all been filled out and signed off before he even got to House's room.

  
The car ride was much the same.  Silent.

 

When they arrived at the apartment Wilson walked up the stairs unlocking the doors and allowing House to follow at his own pace.  His jacket was already slung over the back of a chair when his friend hobbled in the door. 

 

"Go grab a shower.  I'll make dinner."

 

The thought was heavenly.  The smell of the hospital had permeated his hair and even seeped into his clean clothing.  Nothing sounded better than to get out of the stiff jeans and into something soft and comfortable.  His stubble had grown itself into something of a real beard during his stay and needed to be trimmed back as well.

 

The smell of homemade marinara wafted through the open door of the bathroom as House emerged clothed in comfy sweat pants and a sweatshirt surrounded by a billow of steam.  As he entered the kitchen he saw the high stools at the butcher block had silverware and plates laid out across from each other.  Spaghetti, homemade meatballs, fresh parmesan.  It smelled amazing.

 

"Have a seat."  The voice broke the soothing silence. 

 

The scrape of the chair legs against the floor.  The clunk of the tall glasses of water as they're set down.  The groan of the wooden joints as House plunked himself atop the stool.

 

"This is kind of nice.  You should get pneumonia more often.  It seems to have paralyzed your vocal chords."

 

A glare.

  
"Although it could be hard to run a differential without talking."

 

A shrug.

 

"Or without Cuddy's okay that you can go back to work."

  
"What do you mean?" The words just popped out sounding gravely from disuse.

 

"Ah.  So they're not paralyzed good to know.  I mean that unless you agree to talk to _someone_ she won't let you go back to work. All of this destructive behavior isn't making her particularly confident that you should be around patients right now."

 

"I'm fine."

 

This time it was Wilson who was silent.  Although his eyebrows were doing a lot of talking as they contorted themselves into a who-do-you-think-you're-fooling sort of pose.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"Yeah, because repetition makes it true."

 

Growl, scrape, thump, thump, thump.

 

House was out of the kitchen before Wilson could do much about it. 


	11. Chapter 11

House silently stewed over the fact that Cuddy seemed serious about her threats. He couldn’t believe that she would carry through with the plan to remove him as the head of diagnostics until he spoke to someone. He didn’t need to talk to anyone about anything. There wasn’t anything wrong. He was fine. 

His stomach growled and, perched on the edge of his bed, House glared back at it. The pasta had smelled delicious. Considering he had been living off of hospital food for more than a week now the thought of something with flavor set his stomach rumbling. Damn Wilson for bringing that up. He could have at least had the decency to wait until after House had gotten a good meal in him.

He wasn’t willing to give in yet. Not after he had stormed out on Wilson like that. He couldn’t. Resigning himself to an empty belly he swung his legs up into bed and grabbed the book off his night stand along with his reading glasses.

Forty-five minutes later Wilson found him laying on his bed glasses askew and book slipping precariously close to the edge of the bed. Wilson rescued the book from its uncertain perch and smoothed the crumpled pages. He glanced at the cover of the trashy romance novel and shook his head. He set it on the night stand and removed House’s glasses to set them safely atop the book. 

He sighed and looked at his friend. Even with his face relaxed in sleep it seemed as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Wilson made a mental note to put a couple of helpings from dinner into individually sized Tupperware and leave a note. 

Reaching out his left hand he clicked off the bed side lamp and left the room. He’d try again tomorrow. Wilson was nothing if not persistent. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning House awoke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. For a miracle he had slept the whole night through and was fairly well rested. 

“I’m starving.” He announced his presence as he entered the kitchen.

Wilson jumped and spun around almost hitting his companion with a hot frying pan full of freshly sizzling French toast. “Jesus House! You scared the shit out of me.”

Grinning the offending party grabbed a fork off the counter where it sat on a waiting plate and snagged one of the hot pieces of toast from the pan.

“Hey, that’s not done yet.”

Ignoring the protesting oncologist House grinned and bit into the steaming food. Then promptly spit it out rushing to the sink swearing. 

“I told you.”

“I think I burned my tongue.” The words were muffled as House was leaned over the sink his tongue stuck out into the running water. “Your smugness is not appreciated.” He scowled straightening up as water ran down his chin.

Wilson turned back to the stove to hide his grin. He dunked another piece of bread into the bowl of scrambled egg near his elbow and replaced the piece that was now sitting soggy in the sink. “It’ll be ready in five minutes. Drink your orange juice. It’ll make your tongue feel better.”

“Thanks mom.” House sneered back but obediently sat at the high stool near the butcher block in the center of his kitchen and gulped down the orange juice. “Looks like you’ve been here for a while.”

“It’s nearly 10:45 House. I didn’t exactly spring out of bed to get here. I started breakfast about a half an hour ago.”

Scrubbing his hair into further disarray House yawned then rubbed both hands over the bristle that covered the lower half of his face reveling in the scratchy sensation against the palms of his hands. It was getting a bit long maybe he’d trim it down today. He rubbed it again. Or tomorrow. 

As if reading his thoughts Wilson commented on it. “You’ve almost got a full grown beard going there. Be careful or it might grow out of the scraggily homeless look and into a real beard. People might think you look like a doctor then. Can’t let that happen.”

House just glared back wrinkling up his face in distaste. A look which immediately turned around when Wilson deposited a full plate of French toast in front of him. The three thick slices were soon dripping in sugary syrup. A steaming cup of coffee joined the meal and House happily shoveled the first three bites into his mouth without breathing.

Wilson laughed and sat down across the table a few minutes later with his own plate. He carefully put syrup between each layer and then meticulously cut everything up into squares, a few of which disappeared miraculously when he got up to retrieve his coffee from by the stove.

“So.”

House pretended not to hear and kept eating with a gusto.

“You need to breathe at some point.”

Still not verbally acknowledging the oncologist House pointedly shoved a too large bite of toast into his mouth and grinned around it. Drops of syrup caught the light from the kitchen window and Wilson had a hard time reconciling this image with the drunken wreck he had retrieved from the park bench nearly a week before. House swallowed noisily and washed the huge mouthful down with coffee. Looking around for something to get the sticky mess out of his beard he snagged his friend’s paper towel from under the edge of the half full plate across the table.

He swiped it through the stubble on his chin and came away with half a paper towel. Little chunks of paper were stuck to the syrup and strewn all throughout his facial hair. Wilson burst out laughing. 

Grumbling and trying to wipe out the bits of paper only made a bigger mess as the scratchy hair on his chin tore up the makeshift napkin further.

“It makes you look like you have snow on your face.”

This only caused House to scrub more furiously to no avail. The tiny shreds of paper were nearly impossible to get out at this point.

“Looks like you’ll have to go respectable and shave it off. There’s no way you’re getting that out now.”

Growling House pushed away from the table and stormed into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later he emerged looking none too much better. Tiny pieces of paper were still stuck to his face. But now they each had a little red dot in the middle where he had nicked himself.

“Not much of an improvement what did you use to shave? A Porcupine?”

“The syrup and beard mix killed my trimmer. I found an old straight edge.” He picked a few of the pieces off of his face. “You owe me a new beard trimmer.”

“How do you figure.”

“It’s your fault that I had syrup and napkins. Both of which weren’t here when you got here. Therefore you have to buy me a new trimmer.”

“So you’re saying because I made you a breakfast that involved syrup I owe you a new beard trimmer?”

“Yep.” House grinned looking self satisfied and rather proud of his logic.

Wilson just shrugged. “At least you won’t scare the children when you go back to work on Monday.”

“Who said anything about going back to work?” Sputtering on his coffee Wilson looked up at his friend with wide eyes. “I told you. There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m not talking to anyone about anything unless you want to discuss the relative merits of the thong versus the boy short on whomever you’re dating at the moment.”

“So you’re serious. You’re not going back to work.”

“I’m serious about not pouring my soul out to some asshole who’s being paid to judge whether I’m fit to work or not. We’ll see if Cuddy is serious about her stupid threat.”

“She’s not going to cave this time House. You have to understand where she’s coming from. You DIED on the table because of some stupid self righteous self destructive streak. You signed out of the hospital AMA and refused to take the antidepressants the psychiatrist gave you. She doesn’t think you’re fit to work. She’s not going to cave and I agree with her.”

“What! You can’t be serious.”

“She is and so am I. House I’m sick of picking up the pieces. I’m tired of getting phone calls about another damn stupid thing you’ve done. I’m tired of hoping that this time I won’t be called to identify your body. What don’t you get about this? Why can’t you see that you’re depressed and that you need help.”

“Fuck you Wilson. Fuck you and fuck her for making me do this. You can leave at any time. No one said that you had to answer the phone. No one said that I need your sorry ass to rescue me. You want to talk. Fine. Go for it. What do you want to know. What do you and Cuddy need to hear so that I can do my job?”

Silence.

“What? Nothing? Then get the fuck out because I don’t need this.”

“House.” Wilson’s ire had died down.

“No. You tell me that talking about Stacy leaving will help. What will it change? Nothing. It won’t change the fact that she’s gone. It won’t change the fact that she’s better off without me and it sure as hell won’t change the fact that I’m a good doctor. So what will it do? 

You think that people need to talk about everything to deal with it. It’s dealt with. It’s out of my system. I can swear up and down that I won’t do anything like this again but you know, you know that I’d be lying to your face and what would that help. So yes if you want me to talk to a shrink I’ll go and I’ll convince him that everything is fine and he’ll believe me and we will have wasted your time, my time and my co-pay. It’s up to you. The ball’s in your court now.” He reached up to rub the stubble on his face and tossed his hands away disgustedly as tiny bits of toilet paper fell from his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. Thanks for sticking with me on the ride. I appreciate everyone's kind comments. Feel free to leave reviews the good, the bad, and the ugly because it all helps me become better as a writer. Hope you all enjoyed it!

That afternoon Wilson found himself in Cuddy’s office arguing with her. “You have to let him come back to work.”

“No Wilson. I can’t fold on him this time. He showed up in the ER drunk and hypothermic. We had to shock him because his heart failed. He can’t go on like this. We have the leverage we need to make him talk to someone and this will probably be our only chance.”

“Yes, but we can’t dictate his life. I know that he’s depressed and that getting him on medication for it would be the best solution. But he’s been depressed for years. He was depressed even before the infarction. We can’t use this to prevent him from coming back to work. It’s probably the only reason he was getting out of bed when Stacy left this time. If you take that away he’ll loose the biggest reason he has to get up in the morning.”

“You agreed with me. You knew that this would be an opportunity for us and for him. What happened?”

“We talked.” Cuddy glared unconvinced. “Okay. We yelled but that doesn’t change what he said.”

“What could he have said that would have so thoroughly changed your mind?”

“He said it wouldn’t change anything. And it won’t. He’s right. He’s smart enough that he can run circles around any therapist. He can convince them that he’s fine and then he’ll have proof that he doesn’t need antidepressants.

Look, If we let him come back to work now he knows that we know that he’s still as depressed as ever. And that might not be anything to a normal person but for House it will have an effect. He’ll smirk and laugh and say that you caved and that he beat us but he’ll know that we know. And that will change him. He’ll be more careful if he thinks we’re watching. He’ll still pull his regular bullshit but the self destructive streak… that’ll fade back down to its normal levels. He’ll know that he’s on thin ice.”

Cuddy thought about it. Wilson made a valid point but this was all too convoluted. Then again maybe convoluted was the way to go when dealing with House. “Fine. But if he does something like this again. If he shows up hurt, or drunk, or high of his own doing I’m not going to back down again. This is his last shot. I’m serious this time. The ice is so thin right now that his socks are getting wet.”

Wilson grinned at the mental image of House skating in his socks.

“He can come back to work on Wednesday. I’ll tell him on Monday. It will give him a few extra days of rest, but I’m taking it out of his sick time.”

“I don’t doubt that you will.” Wilson’s grin grew. It wasn’t the perfect solution but with House there was rarely a perfect solution.

__________________________________________________________________________

 

Looking at the people passing him across the jogging park House wondered if anything had changed since Stacy had left. The hurt that she had put there wasn't physical but it was unrelenting as the ache in his leg. Getting back to work, burying it under the puzzle had helped numb the pain, like Vicodin for his mind.

He slowly levered himself into an upright position and steadied himself on his cane as he worked to get the stiffness of sitting for so long in one spot worked out of his muscles. The world would continue to tilt and spin and for his part, despite everything, House would cling to it with everything he had.


End file.
